


The Path Doesn't Have Beds and Bathtubs, Jaskier

by neverafuckgiven



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, no beta we die like men, yennefer is mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:27:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22459498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverafuckgiven/pseuds/neverafuckgiven
Summary: Jaskier, however, is a pampered child that likes to inflict those same ideals on whoever’s closest, which is always Geralt. He scowls and finishes his ale. “One room is fine.” He’s learned to pick his battles and right now his shoulder is still stinging from the injury he got earlier. One battle today was more than enough.*Geralt is too emotionally stunted to realize that Jaskier trying to pamper him is Jaskier telling him he loves him. Instead, he ends up worrying that Jaskier is going to end up missing all the fancy things like regular baths and beds and end up leaving him. Not that Geralt loves him or anything.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 63
Kudos: 2264
Collections: Epic To Read List





	The Path Doesn't Have Beds and Bathtubs, Jaskier

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is set after Geralt and Jaskier meet Yennefer and after the child of surprise fiasco. Yennefer and Geralt have never had sex and instead are very good friends that are still bound by the djinn.
> 
> Also there are a few references to monsters from the third Witcher game, 'The WIld Hunt'. You don't need to play the game to get them. Just know they're gross and scary.
> 
> This is not beta read. I reread it several times to try and catch any errors/make any corrections.

Geralt has had a long time to get used to the path. He’s gotten used to sleeping in the cold, the heat, the snow and rain and everything in between. He’s made his bed in the dirt for weeks and bathed in rivers. He’s hunted for his meals more often than not. He’s a witcher for fuck’s sake.

“You will be pleased to learn I have successfully earned enough coin for both a room and a bath! Or, well, a room and a bath or two rooms, but you, my friend, still have guts in your hair from, what was that monstrosity called? A rotfiend? I really must insist you-“

Jaskier, however, is a pampered child that likes to inflict those same ideals on whoever’s closest, which is always Geralt. He scowls and finishes his ale. “One room is fine.” He’s learned to pick his battles and right now his shoulder is still stinging from the injury he got earlier. One battle today was more than enough.

“Thank you! Moreover, the whole town thanks you. You are doing them a service by ridding them of that dreadful stench.” Jaskier darts off to pay the innkeeper and they’re shown to a modestly sized room with a full, steaming tub and two beds.

Geralt shucks off his swords and bags and settles down to meditate. Jaskier will want to bathe first to avoid the filth Geralt will leave in the water. He kneels, sitting back on his heels, and closes his eyes. He can hear Jaskier shuffling about in the room, his gentle humming of his latest composition under his breath. He’s sifting through the soaps and vials, opening them all one at a time. Geralt inhales with each new one, even though most leave his nose burning. The least offensive one lingers, Jonquils or daffodils, and he hears sprinkles as it’s added to the bath. Clothes rustling now and the water shifts, disturbed, and a sigh as Jaskier sinks into the hot tub. Even with his eyes closed, he can picture the look on the bard’s face, pink cheeked and lips quirked in a small smile. He hears splashes, feels the steam, and thinks about water sluicing down bare, vulnerable skin.

“Your turn.” Geralt opens his eyes and Jaskier is standing in front of him in his sleep clothes, hair still damp. “Come on. Up and in.” He rolls his eyes and starts working off the armor. His shoulder is still aching and his shirt is damp from more than just sweat as it peels away. “Melitele’s tits, your shoulder looks horrendous.”

Geralt ignores him and sinks down into the tub. The water’s still hot and he doesn’t mean to groan, but the heat is doing wonders for the ache in his left thigh. There’s a scraping sound behind him as Jaskier drags a chair close and sits down to start poking and prodding his wounded shoulder. It’s all light touches, like he’s being asked a question, and Geralt merely huffs in response, and, of course, he’s understood; those touches become firmer, wiping away the blood, sweat, and pain until Geralt’s clean again. Those hands move up to his hair, fingers combing out the pieces of monster flesh, nails scraping against his scalp, the scent of daffodils building as the soap lathers. 

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?” Jaskier’s voice is quiet, almost far off, but he doesn’t sound offended, just amused. “Lean back a bit so I can rinse all of this off you.” His gentle hands cradle the back of Geralt’s head, tilting his head back to wash it all away. “Are you sure this won’t need stitched? Or at the very least bandaged? I don’t know that I’ll be able to sleep without doing something. I might wake up and see it and frighten the whole town with my screams and then we’ll be run out of town **again** -“

“If it will shut you up, you can do as you like.” At Jaskier’s urging, Geralt grumbles and gets out of the tub, suddenly very tired. He dries off and lights the bedside candles with Igni as Jaskier pulls bandages out of his pack.

He sits on the edge of the bed and lets Jaskier wrap his wound, lets the bard ramble a bit about a countess and her elf lover, as he loses himself in the gentle ministrations. Jaskier’s calloused fingertips brush over his skin in a rhythm akin to a dance, something slow and sweet. Geralt’s eyes focus on the droplet of water making its way down Jaskier’s throat, disappears underneath his shirt. He can smell the wine on Jaskier’s breath and underneath the daffodil soap they both used as if they had rolled in it together. He can feel the warmth of his body even without touch. ‘Couldn’t be any closer’. He thinks hazily, but then wonders. His hands tighten in the sheets.

“Are you falling asleep?” He doesn’t startle at the hands cupping his jaw, at least not visibly, but Jaskier’s surprisingly adept at hearing what Geralt’s not saying. “Go to sleep, Geralt. There will still be plenty of monsters in the morning.”

Jaskier pulls away and slides under the covers of his own bed. Geralt touches his shoulder to feel the bandages. They’re well wrapped and secure, not too tight; they’re completely unnecessary, of course. The wound will be gone in the morning and Jaskier is already asleep for all his insistence that he wouldn’t be able to. Geralt lays back in his bed and watches the man breathe, feeling cold and a continent away.

*

It’s not just the bathing. When they’re in town, Jaskier always seems to have the coin to order tankards of ale and full plates teeming with the tavern’s best food. Geralt’s never been one to gorge himself, but a full plate that hasn’t been spat in is a luxury even he won’t turn down. He’ll enjoy his food in the back as Jaskier performs, his adoring crowd kept well away from Geralt as the barmaid brings more ale. 

After he’s done performing, Jaskier sits on Geralt’s table, his lute perched against the wall behind Geralt. “How’s the food? The owner said as long as I performed well, we could get a decent plate or two.” The barmaid shows up with another plate and sets it down beside Jaskier, throwing him an amused smile; Jaskier watches her go with a smoldering look.

“Keep your eyes on your plate and out of trouble.” He growls, not even pausing in his eating; the bard’s penchant for mischief would be laughable if it didn’t make Geralt’s stomach turn over.

“Don’t worry.” Jaskier pops a piece of sweetmeat into his mouth and turns that look down at Geralt. “I promise to behave. I’d hate to ruin your meal after all the trouble I went through earning it.”

Geralt snorts. “You’ll behave? Roach will fly first.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and grabs another bite. Geralt’s plate, on the other hand, is empty; he takes the opportunity to lean back and just watch Jaskier. The bard’s bites are delicate, like a typical courtier’s, and he seems more interested in the other patrons at the tavern. He bites into a berry and for a moment, Geralt is captivated by his lips, as red and plump as the berries. Jaskier’s tongue darts out, licks his lips, and departs again; He’s turning to leave and Geralt comes back to himself, leaning forward in his seat and his hand around Jaskier’s wrist.

“Something wrong?” Jaskier seems genuinely confused and then concerned when Geralt can’t find it in himself to answer. “Geralt?” He lets go and shakes his head, which seems to mollify Jaskier enough to stand and grab his lute. “Finish my plate, would you? I can’t afford to laze about. One of us has to earn some coin.”

Jaskier winks and starts up another song, dancing through the tavern; it’s one Geralt recognizes, was there when it was written on the road, about a sprite forever blessed with never being in love. Geralt’s stomach rolls again, uneasy. He fixes his gaze on the sprig of bellflower pinned to Jaskier’s chest, listens in for the bard’s heartbeat and finds it, almost jarringly out of rhythm with his song. 

He pulls the plate closer and keeps eating even with his stomach turning unpleasantly. Geralt can push past any discomfort. He has to.

*

Jaskier is not so pampered, though, that he won’t strike a man apparently. 

Geralt isn’t even in the tavern when it happens. He’s out in the stables, brushing Roach down, when he hears a spike in the noise from the tavern and frowns, stilling his hand. Roach snorts in irritation and Geralt’s ready to write it off as typical drunken revelry when the innkeeper’s daughter, Mauve, runs into the stables.

“Witcher! Come quick! Yer bard is causing a ruckus!” Geralt throws down the brush and bolts by her, grabbing his steel sword and running back to the tavern.

He throws open the door and sees Jaskier on the ground with three men standing over top of him. The rest of the crowd is pressed against the walls, wanting no part of it; there are tables overturned and a vase of honeysuckle crushed beneath the crowd’s feet; a woman sees Geralt and screams, making the men’s heads turn. They pale significantly at the sight of him.

“Witcher! He started it.”

“We was having a laugh is all.”

“He took offense-“

“Shut. Up.” Geralt realizes he’s trembling with rage and he imagines how terrifying he must look, enraged and holding his sheathed sword and his title as Butcher of Blaviken hanging over their heads. “All of you. Get out.” Most of the crowd make a speedy exit, but the men linger, legs locked as if he’s going to cut them down if they move. He uses Axii to move their minds; he’s too angry to try and convince them another way. “Go home.”

They walk out, entranced. Their departure leaves him and Jaskier alone in the tavern. Geralt sets his sword down and kneels beside the bard, who’s now sitting up, holding his right side.

“Hello, Geralt! You stole my moment. I was just about to strike them down. It would have been very impressive, but I am willing to forgive you.” Geralt’s too busy focusing on the shaky way Jaskier’s breathing to really appreciate the ranting; he doesn’t hear bone grinding or smell too much blood other than what’s smeared on Jaskier’s mouth.

“I can’t leave you alone for an hour.” Geralt pulls him to standing, more gently than he originally intended, and takes stock of how he stands; Jaskier’s not favoring one leg over the other. Other than his swollen lip and bruised side, he seems to be fine.

“It was well over an hour, possibly even two! And it wasn’t me that started it. Those fools were spouting all sorts of tripe and I had no choice but to stop them.” Jaskier gestures wildly and then winces.

“Insulting one of your songs?” He asks and almost laughs at the offended look on the bard’s face; it turns sheepish though and Jaskier’s face turns a charming shade of pink.

“Nothing you’d be interested in! Not even worth mentioning really.” Jaskier moves to leave, but Geralt blocks his path and gently grips his arm, uses his other hand to tilt the bard’s chin up so he can have a closer look at his swollen lip.

“Worth mentioning now.” Jaskier’s pupils are dilating, the black overtaking the blue with haste, and his breath is coming quicker, ghosting over the witcher’s cheek. His heartbeat is racing now even though the fight’s over; Geralt can see his pulse in the vein in his neck and is transfixed with how it stands out in the pale column of his throat. He, very suddenly, wants to put his mouth there and bite. _Jaskier isn’t an enemy._ His body is tight with fighting the impulse. _Why would I want to do that?_ The thought almost makes him want to laugh though he doesn’t know why.

“They were makin’ all sorts of unsavory comments bout witchers.” He whips his head around and finds Mauve leaning against the doorframe. “Yer bard told ‘em to fuck off.”

Geralt quirks at eyebrow at Jaskier. “I was trying to sing ‘Toss a Coin to Your Witcher’ and those men were ruining it, saying all sorts of things that were blatantly not true and when I tried to correct them, they told me to fuck off! The audacity! What would they know?! I should be the authority on witchers for fuck’s sake.”

“Were you defending my honor or yours?” It’s a strange idea, someone defending Geralt’s honor, especially Jaskier. He thinks he might like it if he let himself.

“Oh, we’ll see if I defend it any more with that attitude.” Jaskier strides off in a huff towards the stairs and Geralt can’t help himself. He smiles.

*

Geralt fucking hates parties, especially ones thrown by noblemen. There are too many pompous people shoved into a room that’s too small. The thick perfume is almost always enough to make him vomit. They’re all cuckolds and peacocks vying for each other’s attention, loud and overbearing. If he didn’t need the coin, he wouldn’t be here. He’d rather fight a graveyard hag than be in attendance at this farce.

Then he hears Jaskier laugh from across the room and sighs heavily. He follows the sound with his gaze; the bard’s making friends with a duchess, an admittedly lovely looking woman with auburn hair. Her laugh grates on Geralt’s ears though, a high pitched cackle, and whatever shit perfume she rolled in makes him want to sneeze. 

Jaskier, on the other hand. . .Geralt had dressed as he bathed, watched Jaskier primp and scrub until his pale skin turned pink, and Geralt had done up half the buttons on his shirt when he realized he’d missed half of them in his daze. There were flowers sprinkled in the water, small pink blooms that had a light scent, one that mixed pleasantly with Jaskier’s own. Camellias, he thinks, if he remembers correctly. Jaskier had asked the merchant for them specifically. 

The smell lingers now, a little stronger for all of Jaskier’s dancing and movement, and Geralt breathes deep, lets that scent wash the other ones out; he tilts his head and focuses on finding the bard’s voice, lets that drown out all of these other wretches.

“It was then that Geralt dropped the griffon’s head at my feet! You should have seen the look on that marquis’ face. Worth the cost of the new boots.” Jaskier’s laugh sounds musical just like it did on the day of that hunt; he’d been entertaining the marquis a safe distance away while Geralt fought the griffon. The lord had doubted Geralt’s ability and Jaskier defended him like he always did; it had done something warm to Geralt’s gut and he dropped the griffon’s head at Jaskier’s feet like a trophy. _You have faith in me and I won’t betray it. I could kill any monster you name as long as you keep looking at me like that._

“Julian, the stories you tell! All of these adventures!” Her voice is pitched low and she puts a hand on Jaskier’s wrist. “You should tell me more of them. We could retire for a nightcap? I’m sure we could entertain ourselves.” 

“As tempting as that offer is, I confess my heart wouldn’t be in it.” Geralt straightens from where he was leaning against the column. “My heart is bound to another.” Jaskier sounds forlorn, which makes Geralt move closer just a touch. His stomach is in knots, feels as though he’s ingested one of his potions that makes his blood boil.

“Oh? Don’t keep me in suspense. This must be a formidable woman to capture your heart so completely!” The duchess leans in and Geralt can see a man across the room take notice; it must be the duke and the man is pushing through the crowd with a scowl on his face. “Where is she? I must meet her.”

The duke is moving quickly and he is closer. But Geralt is much faster. “Oh, we are destined never to be. It is unrequited. Practically made to be a ballad.” Geralt reaches him just as the duke does. “Oh, Geralt! And my lord! We were just discussing the new art you procured for your wife! An amazing collection, I hear.”

The duke knows it’s a lie. All four of them knows it’s a lie. But the man won’t say anything. Geralt’s between him and Jaskier and, even if he doesn’t have a blade, there’s no greater fool than a man that would fight a witcher without an army. 

“My dear, our other guests are waiting.” He extends a hand and she accepts. “Master Dandelion. Witcher.” They sweep away to another group of peacocks and Geralt and Jaskier are left alone, surrounded by people who would rather hear themselves talk than listen to their conversation.

“Thank you for that. I think that man leapt to the wrong conclusion.” Jaskier laughs, a little shakily, and takes a healthy gulp from his wine glass before setting it on a nearby table and moving towards the exit.

“You weren’t talking about art.” Geralt’s never been one for subtlety and he isn’t feeling very generous now. 

Jaskier sighs, pushes the door to the hall open and shuts it behind them. “No, we were not. But I suppose you already knew that.” There’s no one in the hall and no one to stop him from grabbing Jaskier’s arm gently to keep him there.

“You’re in love.” His heart has never beat this fast, not even in battle. Jaskier’s in love. 

The bard squirms, staring down at his feet. “Love is a very strong word-“

“’The stuff of ballads’. If it’s not love, then what would you call it?” Jaskier’s heart is racing; he has beads of sweat on his temple and that sweet scent of camellias fades a little under the sheer panic Jaskier’s pumping out.

“It was for dramatic effect! She was coming on very strongly and nothing deters a woman more than a romantic!” Jaskier laughs, a breathy, pained noise, the sound of lute strings breaking. “Love makes a man act like an idiot, turns his stomach into knots, and drives him into a frenzy that defies all logic! No! I am not foolish enough to fall in love.” He laughs again, a shaken bitter sound. “Especially not with someone that could never return it.” And with that, Jaskier jerks his arm from Geralt’s grip and storms off, heading in the opposite direction of their room.

For some reason, it hits Geralt like a slap to the face, more of a shock than actual pain. Love. Geralt’s in love with Jaskier. It explains all of it. He does feel like a fool. It had been so obvious.

And now Jaskier’s in love with someone. The knowledge makes Geralt feel strangely numb. Is Jaskier in love with some courtier? Some rich debutante that could keep him in finery and hot baths and bouquets? A woman that could give him a normal life? Jaskier deserves all of that. And Geralt can’t give him any of it.

Fuck.

*

Geralt eventually follows Jaskier downstairs and outside to the garden. The bard’s tearing up mallow flowers; he’s perched on the stone bench that surrounds the shallow pond, throwing the petals in the water. He must hear Geralt approach, but he doesn’t turn and so Geralt sits next to him, watching the petals float away.

“Who is it?” He finally asks because he can’t bear not knowing. He knows it won’t make a difference now. But he feels like it might help in the end.

“Geralt, don’t be cruel.” Jaskier wipes his cheek and glares at him, the effect lessened by how red his eyes are. Geralt waits. He doesn’t know what to say here. “You don’t know? You really don’t know?”Jaskier stands and starts pacing, cursing his name as if the witcher isn’t right there, until he finally stops in front of him with a hand on his hip, pointing wildly at Geralt. “Well, here’s a clue! Stubborn? Constantly throwing themselves into trouble? Wildly attractive? Likes to think they’re this terrible monster when they’re one of the most noble people I’ve ever met? And they, in turn, are bound to the most self-destructive and terrifying person in the world?! Is any of this jogging your memory?”

“You’re in love with Yennefer?” Geralt doesn’t even mean for it to come out and wishes he can snatch the words back the moment they leave.

“What? No! No, you idiot! You are!” For a moment, Jaskier actually looks offended. “You’re in love with Yennefer! And I’m-“ Jaskier stops and takes a shuddering breath. “And I’m in love with you.” 

Time slows in that instant for Geralt. He’s very aware of so many things just like he always seems to be with Jaskier. He can smell the salt from Jaskier’s tears mixed in the scent of mallow flowers and hear Jaskier’s heartbeat racing, an erratic metronome. Jaskier’s eyes are the same shade as the pond behind him, a beautiful rich blue.

And Jaskier’s in love with him.

“I’m not.” Geralt can’t even focus on his own voice, focuses on Jaskier’s reaction, almost unperceivable. An uptick in that quick breath and a dilating of the pupils. “I’m not in love with Yennefer.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you are.” 

“I’m not.” Geralt stands and steps forward, pleased to see that Jaskier doesn’t move back. “She and I are bound together, but there’s no love there. We’re friends.”

Jaskier takes a shuddering breath. “Well. Good. I’m sure that will add a century or two onto your life. She reminds me of a woman I met in Skellige-“ And he recognizes this for what it is. A diversion. It’s what Jaskier does best. Talk enough and no one will hear a word you say.

“Jaskier.” Geralt takes another step forward, doesn’t mean to, but Jaskier is pink cheeked and rambling, rumpled in an open doublet when he normally looks pristine, and Geralt may not be human anymore, but this impulse to touch and hold and comfort may be the only thing human left in him.

“We don’t have to talk about it.” Jaskier is pacing again, gesturing wildly. “In fact, let’s never talk about it. We’re both going to consume way too much wine and never talk about this again.”

“No.” Fuck. He’s not in control of anything he says tonight. He needs to say something more-

“No? You don’t think we can go back to the way it was? You were fairly oblivious up until tonight. It hasn’t affected us travelling together.” Jaskier stops, looks at Geralt with a blank expression. Geralt hates it immediately. “Unless you don’t want to. I had assumed our friendship was stronger than that and that all your talk of us not being friends was for show. If you want to stop travelling with me-“

“For fuck’s sake, let me speak!” Blessed silence. But now that he has it, he has no idea what to say. Jaskier’s staring at him, waiting. Fuck. They’ve both waited long enough.

He stalks forward as the bard steps back, ignoring that worried whisper of his name, and instead pulls Jaskier into his arms like he’s wanted to this whole fucking time. With one hand on Jaskier’s lower back and the other cupping his cheek, angling his jaw, Geralt kisses him, takes in all the sensory details he’s been depriving himself of. He tastes like cherries and mulled wine, a combination of bitter and sweet, that has Geralt’s head spinning. Or maybe that’s just him being this close to his bard that’s doing it. His cheek is soft under Geralt’s calloused hand and all of the tension in Jaskier’s body is just gone as he relaxes, kisses him back, hands clinging to Geralt’s shirt. He runs his tongue along Jaskier’s bottom lip, a question, and Jaskier answers as easily as he always has, opens his mouth with a soft moan to let Geralt in. 

A burst of noise from the party has them both tensing and while Geralt is tempted to have Jaskier here and now in this garden, he pulls away and makes himself take a step back. He’s sure it’d be the stuff out of one of Jaskier’s songs, but he doesn’t want them to be interrupted. He wants to take his time mapping out every inch of the other man’s body, learn the song he can pull from Jaskier’s mouth, and savor it. He wants to be able to hear it in his dreams.

Plus, it’s endearing to see the look on the bard’s face. His eyes are wide and his mouth keeps opening and closing. Imagine that. Jaskier at a loss for words. 

“I’m not entirely sure what just happened.” Jaskier finally says, voice low and breathless.

“I’ve been in love with you since Vizima.” Now that he knows what to look for, he realizes that’s truly how long it’s been. 

“That was six years ago.” Jaskier sounds fairly confused and a little hysterical. “Please help me understand. You have been in love with me. For six years. Why am I just now hearing this?”

Geralt doesn’t really know how to explain it. The bone deep feeling had started slowly and had grown so subtly that he had ignored all warning signs. Besides that, he isn’t a fool. His life is the path. He will hunt monsters for the rest of his days and most likely die because of it. He has a destiny out there somewhere in Cintra and who knows how that shit is going to turn out. 

“My life will never be a human one. It is filled with monsters and magic and blood. Nothing on the path is easy.” He finally admits with what feels like a stone in his stomach. “I don’t have anything but myself to offer.” 

“You’re an idiot.” Which Geralt takes offense to, but the look on Jaskier’s face is full of adoration and it’s not cruel when he says it. ”I don’t need any of this. The parties, the wine. I like sleeping in a bed and taking a bath. I’m not going to deny it. But at the risk of sounding silly and sentimental, I only ever needed you.” He pauses and steps forward, grasping Geralt’s shirt to pull him closer. “And my lute. But if I had to choose between you and my lute, I would pick you.”

“So you really are in love with me.” Geralt kisses him then and doesn’t try to keep the smile off his face.

It matches the one on Jaskier’s. “Does this mean I can ride Roach?”

“No.”

Jaskier pushes him into the pond. It doesn’t work out for him anyway. He runs all the way back to their room and when Geralt catches up with him at the door, he presses him up against it and ruins Jaskier’s doublet with pond water. They’ll collect the coin they’re owed in the morning and set back out on the path and Geralt, despite his original answer, will let Jaskier ride Roach.

But only because he’s in love.

**Author's Note:**

> I have not written fic in a long time. Probably at least a year or two. This was a trial of love.
> 
> The flowers mentioned mean something. Seriously.
> 
> Jaskier's comment does not at all reflect my opinion of Yennefer. I love her to death. 
> 
> I tried my best to keep them both in character, though I feel like Geralt turned out more like book Geralt than show or game Geralt. Book Geralt had a lot more self esteem issues.
> 
> Anyway. I tried.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Path Doesn't Have Beds and Bathtubs, Jaskier](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28558740) by [Wereflamingo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wereflamingo/pseuds/Wereflamingo)




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